A Murder in Auschwitz

by J. C. Stephenson

  “Papa, I’m thirsty,” said Greta.

  “Me too,” agreed Anna. “And I am tired. I need to sit down.”

  “I know, girls. But I don’t have anything to drink. Hopefully we will be given something soon,” said Meyer.

  Klara leaned in closer to Meyer. “The children are tired, Manfred, and there is no room for them to sit down.”

  “I know, Klara,” said Meyer. He did not know what else to say. He had not thought to bring any water or food with them and they were crammed in so tightly to the cattle trucks that he could barely turn around.

  The smell of sweat began to fill the carriage, seemingly making the air difficult to breathe. Then, before long, a smell of urine began to permeate the cattle truck, thickening the air further and making the children gag.

  The hours passed as the train made its inexorable journey east, its speed unvarying, the heat slowly increasing. Meyer found a way of leaning back against the door with his legs bent, allowing Anna and Greta to take it in turns to sit against him, allowing them some relief from standing.

  The talking had stopped a long time ago and only the noise of the train wheels clacking over the track broke the silence. By midday, the smell of faeces had started to overwhelm both the odour of sweat and urine. Meyer tried to suck in cooler air from outside the carriage but without success.

  Then he felt the weight of the old man who was standing next to him lean in against him. “Wake up. We are not in Czechoslovakia yet,” he joked, in an attempt to rouse him. But it was no use. The man who was on the other side of him shook his head.

  “He won’t be going to Czechoslovakia, I am afraid. He is dead.”

  Meyer tried to see through the dim light of cattle truck at the old man’s face. His eyes were closed but his mouth hung open. Meyer turned the dead man’s body until it was leaning against the wall of the carriage.

  The hours passed and the heat and smell in the cattle truck continued to increase. Meyer heard that someone else had died in the carriage, and people were coughing and struggling for breath in the oppressive heat. But as darkness began to fall, so did the temperature.

  Meyer and Klara did what they could with the children, holding them so that they might catch a little sleep. Meyer felt his own eyes flicker and shut as sleep attempted to smother him.

  The summer night was short, and soon the morning light began to filter into the carriage once again. He tried to see out of the cracks in the side of the cattle truck but the railway embankments were too high for him to make out anything, until suddenly, he saw an old railway sign, ‘Oświęcim’. They were in Poland.

  A rancid, sweet smell began to permeate that carriage. Meyer initially thought that it was coming from the old man’s body, which remained propped against the wall, but that did not seem feasible. It was coming from outside.

  “Manfred,” croaked Klara. “I think the train is slowing.”

  Meyer peered through one of the larger cracks. She was right; they were coming to a stop at what looked like a disused railway station. The train stopped and he could hear the voices of the guards outside. A few moments later the catches on the doors of the carriages were untethered and the doors slid open.

  Outside of the train stood a line of SS soldiers with a fence running in either direction as far as he could see. All around were guard towers and barbed wire. Meyer jumped down from the carriage before helping down Klara and the girls with their bags. He wondered what kind of place this was.

  Auschwitz, 10th February 1944

  UNTERSTURMFUHRER Dietrich Ritter pushed another log into the stove in his office, in a vain attempt to fight off the cold which permeated the camp. He could not remember the last time he had been unable to see his own breath when he breathed.

  Ritter basked in the heat from the open stove door, allowing the glow from the flames to warm his face. He closed his eyes and imagined that it was the Mediterranean sun he felt on his skin. But the illusion failed. He closed the door of the stove, the cold air of the room wrapping itself around his face once more as he returned to his seat at his desk.

  He looked at the dockets which were piled in his in-tray. After every use of Zyklon-B, a docket was filled out which ended up on Ritter’s desk. Once he had ten of these dockets, he would fill in a requisition form which was then sent to central stores in Hamburg. It was the same process for soap, disinfectant, and insect repellent. Diesel fuel for the generators was under his remit but not fuel for the vehicles. Sturmbannfuhrer Straus had been very insistent that these supplies should lie with food requisition.

  Ritter wondered when Straus’ replacement would arrive. It may be an opportunity to apply for a transfer again. Perhaps, if he was lucky, the new man would want to bring his own staff with him. It was not unheard of that the same team of officers transferred together. This would be the perfect situation for Ritter as he would have a perfect excuse to escape this god-forsaken place with its Jews and flies, its ice and dust. And the murder of Straus.

  He had not enjoyed the court martial at all. Kolb’s jumped-up Scharfuhrer Fuchs had been trying to blame him for Straus’ death.

  He had left the tribunal in a fury after being dismissed. How dare they suggest that he would have murdered someone for his own gain. And there was the intimation of homosexuality. It had been outrageous. Ritter had stormed across the courtyard from the court martial while the panel discussed Kolb’s guilt, his anger slowly dissipating the further from the tribunal he got.

  Ritter resigned himself to making his way through the paperwork and reached for the pile of dockets, quickly looking through the item descriptions and finding himself reading aloud. “Zyklon-B, Zyklon-B, Zyklon-B, detergent, Zyklon-B, soap...”

  He was interrupted by the door of his office opening. In the door frame stood Kramer. Behind him, Ritter could see Gestapo guards. He jumped to his feet and saluted. “Hauptsturmfuhrer Kramer. Can I help you?”

  Kramer removed a piece of paper from his breast pocket and flicked it with one hand so that it unfolded. As Kramer read from the sheet, the guards entered the office, removed Ritter’s side-arm, and handcuffed his hands behind him. “Untersturmfuhrer Dietrich Ritter, you have been charged and found guilty of the murder of Sturmbannfuhrer Paul Straus. You have been sentenced to death by firing squad, a sentence which will be carried out immediately.”

  Ritter began to shake as the guards placed the handcuffs over his wrists. “Herr Hauptsturmfuhrer, I don’t understand!” he cried.

  “You were at the court martial. You should have stayed for the verdict,” said Kramer, standing to one side to allow the guards to push Ritter through the door. “Hauptscharfuhrer Kolb was found innocent. However, it was a court martial into the death of Sturmbannfuhrer Straus. Enough evidence was presented by Scharfuhrer Fuchs to show that there could only be one guilty party. You.”

  Tears began to run down Ritter’s face. “No, Herr Hauptsturmfuhrer. I didn’t kill him. I hated him, but I didn’t kill him. I must be allowed to defend myself!”

  Kramer followed the guards as they marched Ritter across the courtyard to the wall in the execution yard. “You had your chance to defend yourself during the court martial.”

  “But there is no evidence!” exclaimed Ritter. “You can’t shoot me if there is no evidence!”

  “The evidence was clear. Either you or Kolb murdered Straus. Kolb has just been found innocent. You, therefore are the murderer,” said Kramer. “And it is the Camp Commandant’s name on your death warrant,” he continued, holding up the sheet of folded paper.

  The guards pushed Ritter up against the wall and quickly made their way back to the firing line. Ritter’s eyes stung with tears and his breath billowed about him in the frozen air. “I didn’t...” He tried to speak, but the words could not form.

  “Murderers do not escape justice here,” said Kramer, before giving the order to the firing squad to load a bullet into the breach of their rifles and take aim.

  Snowflakes danced in front of Ritter’s
face, and the icy cold bit into his flesh. How he hated this place.

  Meyer sat in the cell which Kolb had occupied up until today. He had only just returned from the forest and still had not managed to determine whether Fuchs had successfully defended Kolb or not. Meyer had broken his own rule and spoken directly to the soldier who had been sent to remove him from the mess queue. He had tried asking him about Kolb, if he had been released, but the guard had ignored him and taken him back to the cells in the stockade, where the adjutant had taken possession of him and locked him in Kolb’s cell.

  At first, Meyer had thought that Kolb would be there too, found guilty and waiting for the firing squad. He thought that maybe Kolb would be given a chance to vent his anger on him before being shot. Then, when Kolb was not already there, he thought that maybe Kolb would arrive later, perhaps for the other crimes which he had committed. But time passed and Kolb did not appear.

  Meyer had had difficulty sleeping the previous night. It had been a long time since sleep had evaded him and an even longer time since he had felt the excitement he felt in his stomach.

  Before Geller had succumbed to sleep, Meyer had slipped two envelopes to him, with strict instructions on when they should be opened. Geller had hidden them inside his shirt. Geller had tried to get Meyer to disclose what the contents were, but Meyer had just smiled and explained that the letters would explain everything to him.

  The day in the forest had been long and difficult. All Meyer could think about was the defence which Fuchs would be presenting to the court martial, the failure of which would lead Kolb to the firing squad and no doubt Meyer to the gas chamber. But his success would mean seeing Klara again. Beautiful Klara. The wait had been interminable.

  Then the door to the cell opened and Fuchs entered. Meyer pushed himself to his feet, his face silently questioning the SS officer.

  “Hauptscharfuhrer Kolb was found not guilty, Meyer,” said Fuchs, a smile building across his face.

  Meyer sunk back onto the chair. He felt relieved and exhausted. He had done it. He had given Fuchs the tools to show that Kolb was innocent of Straus’ murder. And he had manipulated Kolb to force Liebehenschel to agree to Meyer seeing his wife again. He felt tears begin to well up in his eyes. He pushed them away with his fingers, not wishing to show any outward emotion in front of a member of the SS.

  “I have someone here to see you, Meyer,” said Fuchs, his voice almost soft.

  Meyer looked up at him. “Klara?” he whispered.

  Fuchs nodded. “She is in the adjutant's office. I will bring her along in a minute.”

  Meyer jumped up from his seat and began to make sure that his jacket was buttoned up, trying to smooth his hair with the palm of his hand. “How do I look?” he asked Fuchs.

  For the first time, Fuchs really looked at Meyer. His hair was peppered with grey and stubble covered his face. His cheeks had sunk, especially on the left-hand side, where Meyer was missing teeth. His clothes were grey and ragged and hung on Meyer like loose skin.

  Fuchs leaned forward and straightened Meyer’s collar. “You look fine, Meyer.” He then turned and left the cell, leaving Meyer standing, holding his cap in his hands in front of him, the door to the cell open.

  So this is where it would happen, thought Meyer. Where they would allow two prisoners to see each other again after such a long time; in a cell. Of course, it made perfect sense.

  Then Meyer could hear footsteps in the hallway. One of them was the distinctive noise of wooden clogs.

  For a moment, his memories whisked him back to their wedding day, when he had stood in the synagogue, Klara’s brother Kurt beside him, as he waited for her to walk down the aisle towards him. He had waited for her then and it had been her footsteps which he had listened to, getting closer and closer.

  Then he saw her. Just her shoulder at first, as she hesitated at the cell door, and then her face. Her beautiful, smiling face. His Klara.

  Auschwitz, 24th July 1943

  EVERYONE had been ordered off the train with their luggage. Only the dead remained on board.

  Meyer stood, holding hands with Klara on one side and Greta on the other, while Klara clutched Anna to her side. Their cases sat in front of them and Meyer waited for the instructions on where they were to go next.

  “I’m thirsty, Papa,” said Greta.

  “I know, darling, we will get water soon,” replied Meyer, although his own thirst tormented him.

  Meyer watched as SS guards made a check on each of the carriages and then returned to report to one of the officers. He wondered about the old man’s body and what would be done with it and his luggage.

  After a short wait at the trackside, SS officers made their way through the crowd, picking out the old and asking them to follow the left-hand pathway away from the train. Very quickly after that, the women and children were split from the men.

  Klara held on to Meyer’s hand for as long as she could. “No, Manfred, I don’t want to go.”

  “It is okay, Klara,” he reassured her. “It will only be for a short while. You need to be strong for the children.”

  “Papa, where are they taking us?” asked Anna, as Klara picked up her case and handed it to her.

  “I am not sure, Anna, but I am sure that it will not be for too long. You and Greta be good for Mummy,” he replied.

  “Yes, Papa,” they chorused.

  “I love you, Manfred,” said Klara as she, Anna, and Greta joined the rest of the women and children and made their way up the embankment.

  He saw them just on the summit of the rise, Anna and Greta looking back over their shoulders, the word 'Papa' silent on their lips, and Klara guiding them through the crowd.

  “I love you too,” he whispered.

  Auschwitz, 10th February 1944

  ANTON Geller sat on his bunk and pulled out the two sealed envelopes from inside his top. Meyer had known that this would happen and Geller was under instructions as to what to do when it came to pass. One envelope carried the Camp Commandant’s name, the other, Geller’s.

  Geller dropped down from his bunk and, stuffing his letter back into his top, made his way over to see Langer. Langer sat on his bunk, his gruff laugh filling that corner of Hut 72 as he joked with Braun, one of his deputies.

  “Herr Langer,” interrupted Geller. Langer stopped laughing and looked up at him.

  “What do you want, Geller?” he asked.

  “I have something for Herr Liebehenschel,” replied Geller. Langer looked at him in astonishment and then began to laugh again.

  “You?” laughed Langer. “You have something for the Camp Commandant?”

  “Yes,” replied Geller.

  “What could you possibly have for Liebehenschel?” Langer managed to ask through his laughter. Braun had joined in the joke, his thin, mouse-like laugh in contrast to Langer’s.

  Anton Geller persevered. “It is a letter, Herr Langer.” He held it up for Langer to see. The kapo’s laughter faded and he snatched the envelope from Geller’s hand. Reading had never been Langer’s strongpoint, but even to him it clearly had ‘Obersturmbannfuhrer Arthur Liebehenschel’ typed on the front.

  “What do you expect me to do with this?” he shouted.

  “I was wondering if you could hand it to one of the officers in the morning, during roll call,” replied Geller. Langer thought for a moment. Braun looked at him expectantly, waiting for Langer to do something to belittle Geller. A smile spread across Langer’s face once again.

  “You do it,” he growled.

  “I am sorry, Herr Langer, I am not sure what you mean,” replied Geller.

  “You take this letter and give it to one of the guards outside,” said Langer, handing Geller the letter back.

  “But it is after curfew, only the sonderkommando and kapos can be out after curfew,” he said, but Langer’s gruff laugh had returned. “I might be shot,” he continued. This made Langer guffaw and Braun squeal with pleasure.

  “Then you had better be carefu
l,” shouted Langer through his laughter.

  Anton Geller turned and started towards the door of the hut. He paused with his hand on the handle before turning it and stepping outside.

  Braun and Langer stopped laughing. “He has gone outside. Why would he do that?” asked Braun, in his thin voice.

  “God knows,” replied Langer.

  Obersturmbannfuhrer Arthur Liebehenschel sat at his table and was preparing himself to start tucking into a stew, beautifully cooked by his wife, when there was a knock at the door. His wife, still dishing potatoes out onto the plates, looked annoyed by the interruption.

  “Why don’t they leave you alone, dear? They must realise it is dinner time. Can’t they do anything without you?” she scolded.

  Liebehenschel stood up from the table and answered the door. Outside was Kramer.

  “I am very sorry to disturb you, sir,” he said, and then noticing Liebehenschel’s wife glaring at him, he nodded his head in the Prussian manner. “Frau Liebehenschel, my apologies.”

  “What is it, Josef?” asked Liebehenschel.

  Kramer handed over the envelope. “One of Manfred Meyer’s fellow prisoners handed this to a guard tonight. He says that he found it in Meyer’s bunk. It is addressed to you, sir.”

  A feeling of dread filled Liebehenschel. What could this Jew possibly want to tell him in a letter? He was certain that this would cause him a great deal of problems. Liebehenschel ran his thumb nail along the top of the envelope, opening it, and took out the carefully folded letter inside. It read;

  Herr Liebehenschel,

  As I am sure you are aware, I advised Hauptscharfuhrer Kolb’s representative that in fact, although Hauptscharfuhrer Kolb may have been guilty of other offences, murder was not one of them. I advised that Untersturmfuhrer Ritter had actually carried out the crime; the details I am sure you have read in the reports from the court martial. However, this was an error.